The Gravedigger's Brawl (11 page)

He blew the air out in a puff as Ryan called to them that the beer was all warm and thumped back down the steps.

“What's wrong with you, lad?” Caleb asked.

Ash shook his head. The terror was gone just as suddenly as it had struck. He rubbed his chest. “I have no idea.”

“Panic attack,” Ryan said.

“Is that a real thing?” Ash asked.

Caleb nodded. “Definitely.”

“What causes them?”

“Anything; they're pretty common when you're under stress,” Ryan answered. “You okay to get home? What the hell's going on?”

Ash nodded, embarrassed and irritated. “Fuck if I know. I'll be so glad when shit starts working around here again.”

Ryan grunted. “That's not fair. I work.”

Caleb rolled his eyes and gestured them both toward the door “Go away.”

Wyatt barely made it through his mid-week presentation to the board without vaulting over the conference table and strangling Reth, but the trustees grudgingly approved his idea. Reth still had Wyatt's head on the chopping block, and if the exhibit wasn't a success, Wyatt would still be put up to a vote.

The stress was starting to morph into something that threatened Wyatt's sanity, but at the same time he was distracted, still focusing on his weekend tryst with the enigmatic bartender from Gravedigger's.

As the flurry of activity that had led up to the presentations wound down, Wyatt found himself once again staring vacantly at the Thurston poster in his office, tapping his pen against his knee. Even Howard Thurston, with his mastery of sleight of hand and his tenuous connection to the macabre, reminded Wyatt of Ash Lucroix.

Ash's world that had nothing to do with Wyatt's. It was darker, richer. There was something familiar and comforting about the old-fashioned aspects, countered by the sharp excitement of something new and different. Wyatt thought maybe that was why he was so drawn to the man.

He'd promised Noah he would stay away from Ash for a little while unless it was about the exhibition, though. And he had done it, both for the sake of his friendship with Noah and for the sake of his own sanity. It would never work if he fell for someone like Ash. The man coordinated his outfits with his tongue rings, for God's sake.

Wyatt closed his eyes and snorted, rubbing his hands over his face. All the reasons he tried to tell himself that Ash was all kinds of wrong for him wound up being things that Wyatt found fascinating or endearing or just plain sexy. He had never thought that walking past a photo of a man wearing suspenders would remind him of the best sex of his life.

Wyatt was a man of his word, though. But now he had a legitimate reason, flimsy though it might have been, to go and see Ash. It was just a question of whether he had the nerve to take what he had found during his research to the bar and talk.

He rested his head on the back of his chair and opened his eyes, looking up at the ceiling. It was past closing time. The interns he'd been supervising as they set up the new exhibits had all gone home. Noah had left early to “take his baby to the doctor,” which meant his vintage motorcycle had something wrong with it again.

Wyatt had no excuse not to walk the four or so blocks down the street to the bar. Nothing but the very real terror of rejection was keeping him here.

He growled and stood, gathered the copies of the documents he had collected, slid them into protective sleeves, and placed them in his satchel.

He was out of the museum and walking toward Gravedigger's before he could think better of it.

It was nearly six when he got there, and the after-work crowd had materialized. The bar wasn't very busy, though, and Wyatt found out why when he stepped through the door. The
music
wasn't blaring like it had been Monday, and Ash was merely mixing drinks rather than performing. The ambience was different. It seemed intimate and almost mellow, in a strangely dark and antiquated way. He liked it, though. It felt like stepping into a different world.

It was the same feeling, he realized, that he'd had that night in Ash's apartment. There was a sense of history here—in the bar, in Ash's condo, even in the way Ash dressed. But it wasn't the same sense the museum gave off, like history on display. It was like stepping into a portal, back to a world that had never been. Like Ash had come out of the past and put a modern twist on it. Wyatt couldn't quite explain it, but it was just one more thing about Ash that appealed to him.

As Ash leaned out and swiped a towel over the scarred surface of the bar, he happened to look up, his eyes meeting Wyatt's. He stopped his wiping, as if Wyatt had somehow frozen him, and stared for a long moment before moving his arm again. He nodded at Wyatt, then looked away as someone requested a drink.

He wasn't wearing suspenders today, just a pair of casual black trousers and a bright red tuxedo vest over a V-neck T-shirt. Wyatt was almost disappointed. But then, he supposed a man could only have so many pairs of the things. The kohl was still there, though. Wyatt was relieved. He had grown very fond of the kohl.

He looked around the room as he walked over to the bar. Delilah was in the far corner, taking an order. Ryan and Caleb were nowhere in sight. Wyatt set his bag on the bar top and chewed on his bottom lip as Ash mixed a drink. As soon as Ash set the finished product down, he glanced over at Wyatt and then looked around as if searching for the others, just like Wyatt had done.

He walked over, wiping his hands on the towel he had draped over his shoulder. “What's your poison?”

“I have something to show you,” Wyatt said.

Ash's eyes darted down to the bag where Wyatt's hands were resting. “Okay.”

Ash's distrust was obvious, and Wyatt wanted to reassure him. “It's about the history of this house.”

Ash's brow furrowed, and he looked back down at the bag. “Weeknights we take turns at the tables. Tonight's Delilah's go and it's Ryan's night off, so I've got the bar all night. I can't really look at anything unless it gets real slow.”

“I understand.” He could wait; he had nowhere to be.

Ash looked at him expectantly, then seemed to realize that he wasn't going to leave. “You're going to hang around?”

“If you don't mind,” Wyatt said as he reached into the bag and extracted a document. He laid it aside and pushed the bag away from him. “Can you put this behind the bar?”

Ash nodded and stowed the bag under the bar. “Can I get you anything while you wait?”

“I'd love some of that root beer you have on tap.” Wyatt met Ash's dark eyes. “I don't do so well with the alcohol, I've found.”

Ash stared at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he nodded and turned away, reaching up to the shelf behind him for a beer mug and letting it roll down his arm. He used his elbow to pop it into the air and caught it with his other hand as he turned back to the taps. The entire movement seemed second nature to him. Did he even know he'd done it?

Wyatt watched him the entire time, unable to deny the attraction or the fascination. Ash filled the mug and set it in front of him with a nod. Then he glanced up and down the bar and leaned against it, coming closer to Wyatt with a sigh.

“It's only going to pick up,” he said as he looked down at the copy of the old newspaper clipping Wyatt had encased in protective plastic. “Go ahead.”

Wyatt watched him almost longingly, and when Ash glanced up, their eyes met.

Ash hummed. “I know that look.”

“I'm sorry,” Wyatt said, but he didn't look away. “I was just wondering what color it is tonight.”

Ash blinked at him, nonplussed, but then he smirked. He opened his mouth and stuck out his tongue, revealing a tiny red whistle sitting there.

Wyatt leaned closer and peered at it. “Is that a real whistle?”

Ash laughed, looking away. “It takes some practice to get it to actually blow. But it's good for getting someone's attention.”

Wyatt gaped as Ash stuck his tongue half out of his mouth and placed the tip of the tiny whistle at his lips. The thing emitted a high-pitched shrill. Delilah jerked her head up and looked over at them, and outside, a dog tied to the iron fence began to howl.

Ash laughed as Delilah flipped him the bird and went back to work.

Wyatt smiled. “How many of those things do you have?”

“Tons.”

“They come in all kinds?”

“You have no idea,” Ash drawled, his smile growing more evil. “Some of them vibrate.”

“Really.” Wyatt stared, completely lost for the moment.

Ash grinned wider, displaying that adorable smile with the chipped canine. He was less defensive now. “Okay, show me.”

Wyatt swallowed hard. He could sit there all night and just watch Ash work, but he tore his eyes away and turned the news article toward Ash. “This is about this address,” he said.

Ash bent over it, scowling. He was probably trying to make out the antiquated print in the low light.

Wyatt sipped at his root beer. The article, in all its early-twentieth-century journalistic relish, detailed the discovery of a veritable charnel house on this very lot. The structure that stood here now had been built in 1909. When the ground was being cleared for the laying of the foundation, the workers had found evidence of burnt timbers and scorched layers of dirt. Then they'd struck something solid beneath the topsoil, and when they broke through a layer of buried mortar and stone, they found an old root cellar, every nook and cranny nearly overflowing with human bones.

Ash inhaled deeply and pushed the article away, frowning at Wyatt. “That's a tad disturbing.”

“A tad.”

Ash pressed his lips into a thin line and examined Wyatt, obviously unsettled. “So why tell me?” he finally asked.

“It got me thinking. That story you told us, about the house fire in New Orleans?”

Ash's frown deepened. Finally, his lips parted and he inclined his head. “The LaLauries and DuBois legend. Yeah, it's similar, and it really did happen in New Orleans. But the Richmond connection was just urban legend, man. There's no real evidence that the LaLauries ever stayed here for any amount of time, or even came here at all. It was just hearsay.”

“All urban legends are based in truth. Why would the legend pick Richmond? There's no connection to New Orleans here. It wasn't even a main port in the 1830s. Why here? Why not Charleston? Why not Boston or New York?”

“I don't know.”

“This area, the Fan area? It was mostly untouched farmland until after the Civil War.”

“Wait a minute.” Ash held up one hand. “Are you trying to tell me you think the LaLauries really fled to Richmond after they left New Orleans and then started it all up again here? That's a bit out there.”

“So is thinking that they just up and stopped their experiments after they were caught the first time.”

Ash stared at him. A woman at the other end of the bar called his name, and he glanced down and nodded. “Let me think,” he said to Wyatt as he moved away.

Wyatt watched him, sipping his root beer as Ash prepared the woman's order. Several more followed, and Wyatt passed the time by just admiring the way Ash worked. The graceful way he moved, the easy way he interacted with the patrons, the way he danced to the music a little when he became too distracted.

A half hour later, Ash slid back up in front of Wyatt. He flopped his towel over his shoulder and leaned on his elbows. “So why are you really here?”

“What?”

Ash tapped the plastic-covered article and met Wyatt's eyes. “It's very interesting. And you may very well be right, even though the leap in logic is like Evel Knievel caliber.”

Wyatt laughed and shook his head.

“But I still don't see why you had to come here and tell me about it.”

Wyatt's smile fell as he stared at the well-polished bar. Then he met Ash's eyes, and his stomach tumbled. “You were the only other person I could think of that might find it interesting.”

“But Noah—”

“Found it interesting.” Ash frowned. Wyatt smiled. “Come on. You telling me this information won't bring crowds into the bar in droves?”

He was unable to admit that it had been the only way he could come back in here and see Ash again.

“We're not really hurting for business.”

Wyatt shrugged. “I'm sorry. I figured every little bit helped.”

Ash studied him as if he were trying to measure him up for a painting. “Yeah, okay.”

“There's more,” Wyatt said with a smirk. Ash raised an eyebrow, and Wyatt pointed at the bar. “Get my bag, will you?”

Ash knelt and retrieved the bag, setting it on the bar with a grunt. He excused himself to fix several orders, and Wyatt took the time to find the rest of the documents. They outlined the history of the Fan, and Wyatt had retained copies of anything that supported or refuted his theory.

He had the land records from when it had been parceled up to create a town that had never materialized, and the deed for the block now occupied by Gravedigger's, and for roughly four blocks around it.